I went to the city of Angeles and kicked in crystal doors, but my friend the angel had already flown away, fleeing the demon pulling strange youth by their blistered heels into the void of oblivious hunger and thirst. I still look for feathers, like those shed by the claws and fangs of a cat with bottomless joy for torturing the frail and already tortured souls of abandoned sons never to become man. Because man it ain't right, but it ain’t left either, and Im still here grasping at feathers that are not there, never left behind, not a trace, just a trance and a burning coal of misery in the bottom of my eternal distaste for all that preys upon the purity of youth and eternal vision of burning bright. Soar high my friend the angel, high above that city that never deserved such grace nor a feather upon its pillow of stain. In time, my friend, in time, we return to purity, we return to bright.